


Cold

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [23]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Avalanches, Buried Alive, Caring Haytham Kenway, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FebuWhump2021, Flashbacks, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teenager Death (non graphic), no beta we die like the people of Lisbon after Shay’s visit :/
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29653983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: Haytham, usually so careful with physical affection, presses Shay’s hand between his palms to still the trembling of his fingers. Strange, he hadn’t even realised that he was trembling, but now that his attention has been drawn to it, he can feel that most of his body is shaking almost imperceptibly.“It wasn’t your fault,” Haytham says again. “It was a natural thing. An unfortunate, terrible thing, but a natural one nonetheless.”*Shay and Haytham witness another natural disaster. It brings back unwanted memories.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> ...you didn't think I'd complete this month without writing some Shaytham, did you? ;)
> 
> Today's prompt was: "Don't Look."

It had been a fairly normal day, Shay reflects later.

In many tales, there is always talk of a heavy sense of foreboding the hero feels, of something not quite right in the air before disaster strikes, but Shay has felt none of it. Perhaps that means that his life isn’t really a story fit for heroic retellings – or that he isn’t really the hero in any tale they might make out of it. Either way, he senses nothing out of the ordinary, save perhaps a little exhaustion from another night of too little sleep.

There had been a late spring snowstorm the night before, dressing the peaks around them in coats of sparkling white. Haytham had mumbled something unintelligible at Shay’s wonder and marvel at the beauty of the ice-capped peaks and chosen to retreat back into their cabin where there was at least a modicum of warmth still left.

The Morrigan is safely at anchor in the bay and they have spent the vast majority of the morning freeing her from ice, enough to keep her manoeuvrable, although Shay doesn’t anticipate having to leave before the next day. They’re taking some supplies on board in the little settlement before continuing on their journey north.

Around midday, Haytham finally emerges from their cabin, shivering and pulling his coat closer around himself as he squints up into the sun. The approaching spring is apparent in the strength of its rays and for the first time in a while, Shay feels completely relaxed just letting the warmth pool on his face and seep into his bones. He even takes of his gloves, closing his fingers around the warm wood of the railing. A warmth that obviously hasn’t reached Haytham yet, judging from the slightly distasteful expression with which he is mustering the mountains and newly fallen snow.

Shay smiles when he looks over at him. The sun has put him into a playful mood, even more so now that none of his men are actually within earshot.

“Do you always frown at the sun like it just burnt up your house?” he asks, evidently ripping Haytham out of whatever thoughts he was engaged in. Haytham’s frown deepens for a second as he stares at him before it evens out a little.

“No,” he admits. “I was thinking that the cold spell was rather inconvenient and wondering whether we should delay the journey northwards for a few more days.”

“A few more days?” Shay raises his eyebrows. “Ah, sir, admit it. You only want to eek out more time here in this bay so you can make good use of me and our bed in the cabin.”

If Haytham were the type to sputter in indignation, he would have. Instead, however, the Grandmaster simply lifts one eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly.

“A not unwelcome side effect perhaps,” he admits. “Although you overestimate your own grandeur by just a mite. An extended break here would give us more time to complete our hunt for the last of the supplies needed, and the men enough respite to be well-rested by the time we chance the final leg of our journey.”

“You wound me, sir.” Shay places a hand on his chest in an overdramatic fashion. “And here I thought you value my company in bed.”

Haytham rolls his eyes. Whatever he had been planning on saying to Shay in reply, however, gets lost when the sound of a low rumble reaches them. Shay immediately scans the horizon, searching for the tell-tale dark clouds that might have been the source of an impending thunderstorm. The skies remain clear, however, and he frowns – until Haytham grabs his arm and points towards the mountains.

Shay feels like he is caught in a nightmare as he listens to the rumble intensify. Entire banks of snow on the mountainside have started moving, deceptively slowly at first, but rapidly gaining speed and causing others in their path to move as well. In the end, it looks like half of the mountain is suddenly in motion, a white wall of death that is racing towards the settlement at the bottom. Shay wants to scream a warning, wants to wave his arms, but he knows that anything he could do right now would be useless. He can only watch as the avalanche engulfs the houses of the settlement, wood splintering like matches under its sheer violence.

As quickly as it happened, the catastrophe is over. The silence is all-encompassing as the snow in the air slowly begins to settle. It looks almost beautiful, the air sparkling as the sun reflects on the crystals. For a moment, nobody is breathing, shocked into stillness by the sudden onslaught of violence. Then, the screaming starts.

It isn’t much, isn’t even terribly loud, but in the silence of this cold wilderness, it carries effortlessly across the snow and waves until it hits Shay in the face like a solid brick. He doesn’t know how to breathe. He cannot think. He can’t –

“Mr Gist, Get the boats ready.” Haytham commands next to him. “You there, Alison and Walker, gather as many supplies as we can spare, medicine, food, furs, blankets and pile them into the boats. Shovels, too, if you can find any. We need to make haste.”

He continues to give orders in a calm and quiet manner, cajoles the men until they pick up their tasks, all the while throwing hesitant glances at their captain. Gist walks up next to him and murmurs something too quietly for Shay too hear. Haytham shakes his head.

“I’ll look after him,” he reassures him, before moving even closer to Shay.

“Shay,” he says quietly. He reaches out as if to touch him, but then remembers that there is nothing worse than being touched for Shay when he is in this state. “Shay, come back to me. Breathe. It’s not your fault.”

Shay sucks in one trembling breath, but it doesn’t seem to fill the gaping hole that has suddenly opened up inside him. He tries to take another, his eyes still trained on the scenery of death at the shore in front of them. Time seems to expand and contract around him and he has no idea how much of it passes until he is finally able to move again. Shay blinks, eyes watering from the now so hostile-seeming glare of the sun. Distantly, his mind registers pain, and he is surprised to find that the tips of his fingers are bloody where he’s been digging them into the wood of the railing.

“Can I?” Haytham’s voice helps to pull him even further out of his stupor. He gestures at Shay’s hand and Shay nods, still feeling utterly numb. Haytham reaches out, peeling the fingers of Shay’s right off the railing one by one with a gentle patience that he very rarely shows outside closed doors. Not that anybody is watching – in fact, the ship seems mostly empty, except for them. The men must’ve taken the boats to whatever is left of the settlement already, although Shay cannot remember them filling or rowing the boats away.

Haytham, usually so careful with physical affection, presses Shay’s hand between his palms to still the trembling of his fingers. Strange, he hadn’t even realised that he was trembling, but now that his attention has been drawn to it, he can feel that most of his body is shaking almost imperceptibly.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Haytham says again. “It was a natural thing. An unfortunate, terrible thing, but a natural one nonetheless.”

Shay nods, still not sure whether he can force any words past his lips. He hates how weak this leaves him, how his entire body is caught in a state of panic, rooted on the spot. He takes a deep breath through his nose, digs the wounded fingertips of his other hand deep into his palm, until he can feel a sliver of pain shooting through him. The pressure of Haytham’s hands on his doesn’t waver, until he is sure that Shay is breathing somewhat normally again.

“We should go, see if we can help,” Shay finally presses out. There’s one last boat still left that they can row over to the shore.

“If you want.” Haytham watches him with eagle eyes, and Shay wants to simultaneously thank him for his care and worry, and snap at him that he isn’t a child. “I doubt two more pairs of hands will make much of a difference though.”

“Someone buried underneath all that,” Shay gestures weakly towards the masses of snow, ”might not think so. Let’s go.”

“As you wish.” Haytham shrugs, but the casual gesture cannot cover up the tight expression on his face, how thinly his lips are pressed together. But, to his credit, he doesn’t stop Shay when gathers what few supplies that might be of help are still left, even offers to row the boat. Shay declines his offer, opting to do the task himself. That way he can at least concentrate on something that isn’t the looming feeling of death and destruction in the air.

The pier, at least, has remained undamaged and they tie their boat to it quickly before setting foot on land. Shay can hear the shouts already, the sound of frantic activity. Screams, too, piercing the air and burrowing right into his soul.

The avalanche has destroyed a good half of the settlement, the wooden buildings no match for the ferocity of ice and snow. They’ve been completely obliterated, only a few timbers sticking out in some places that signify that humans might have lived here once.

“Captain Cormac,” Gist hurries up to him, worried glances darting back and forth between him and Haytham.

“What’s the situation, Gist?” Shay’s voice sounds foreign to him, flat and hard as it comes out of his mouth.

“Three dead. There’s five people from the town still unaccounted for. Two severely injured, they’re already being looked at. The rest got away with minor scrapes. We were lucky that most people weren’t at home, otherwise…” He stops and shakes his head.

“What do we need to do?” Shay asks, still feeling as if his voice doesn’t belong to him.

“Dig, mostly. If we can. Ice is thick in some places. Maybe some of the missing will have gotten lucky, trapped in a cellar somewhere.” Gist shudders a little and gestures for them to follow him. They pass groups of people, many still with that shell-shocked look in their eyes that’s so familiar to Shay. He balls his hands inside their gloves and grits his teeth.

Someone presses a shovel into his hand and directs him to a pile of snow where a group of people are already working – men with pickaxes who are clearing away the harder patches of ice, and those with shovels to carry the ice away and take care of the looser snow. There was a house here once, Shay realises, a few timbers and stones still sticking out, the charred remnants of what must have been a chimney. He gets to work.

All his movements are mechanical, his emotions pushed into a tiny corner of his brain that just won’t stop screaming. His arms begin burning after a while, sweat running down his face, but still he keeps going, like everyone else around him. Finally, they get to what used to be the ground floor of the house. Shay’s chest contracts when he sees a little toy caught in the crevices between a few timbers – a little whittled horse, two its legs broken off, the glossy wood a testament to how often it had been handled.

One of the men he is digging with gives a shout, directs them over to a corner of the destroyed house. A trapdoor must have led to the cellars from here, but if anybody made it down there, they didn’t have the time to close the door, so the snow is filling up the entrance, has caused half the ceiling into the basement to collapse, in fact.

“Wait.” Haytham raises his hand. “I think I can hear something.”

Any movement stops immediately as they all strain their ears to listen. Haytham was right – now that it is silent around them, they can hear the sounds of faint yelling from behind the mass of snow clogging the entrance to the cellar. The noise immediately spurns them into action, and they begin digging and hacking at the icy wall with renewed vigour.

“We’re coming! We’ve got you! Hold on!” Shay hears himself shouting, gritting his teeth when the hilt of the shovel grinds against his newly forming blisters. They dig frantically, occasionally stopping to listen. The voice, likely a woman’s voice, is growing louder every time they do.

Finally, one of the men sticks his shovel into the snow only to find it give way and reveal empty air behind it. A chorus of shouts rises up and soon enough, people are pulling snow away with their bare hands, gradually widening the opening, until they can see a woman’s terrified face with tear-stained cheeks. She’s cradling a bundle against her chest and Shay’s heart stops, until he can hear a faint cry from the infant in her arms.

She’s being pulled out by multiple people at once, wrapped in furs and blankets and escorted towards the building where the wounded are being treated.

“Maria!” A shout sounds out and they see a man limping towards her, heedless of the member of Shay’s crew who’s trying to hold him back and keep him from injuring himself further. He envelopes both her and the baby in an embrace, tears of relief standing out starkly on his face. It quickly falls, however, when he looks behind her and sees no one else, fear marring the happiness he has just found again.

“James,” he says, urgency suffusing his entire being. “Where’s-“

Maria just shakes her head and begins to cry. There’s a shout from the men Shay has been working with and he looks in the opening they have hewn into the snow. He sees a pair of gangly legs, blood on their pants, and-

“Don’t’ look.” Haytham grips his arm and squeezes, so hard that it hurts. “Don’t look, Shay.”

The couple’s teenage son must have been too slow to enter the basement and was caught under masses of collapsing ceiling and snow. The image overlays itself with other, older memories in Shay’s mind – the smell of fire and the sound of buildings collapsing around him. Maria’s sobs morph into the frantic screams of those caught under the rubble, those looking for their loved ones. A pair of legs and an arm, sticking out from under a collapsed wall. A man running through the streets, face sheeted in blood. A child, unmoving in a corner. He couldn’t help. _He couldn’t help_. And it had all been his fault. 

The pressure on his arm increases and Shay is dimly aware that Haytham is leading him away as the others begin the work of excavating the body. He follows along without offering any resistance but stops when Haytham wants to lead him back to the ship.

“No.” He frees himself from Haytham’s grip. “No. I need to help.”

“You’re exhausted.” Haytham indicated the slight trembling in his arms, stemming from much more than simple tiredness. “Your mind is a mess. You need rest, and not be here, amongst death and destruction.”

“So are they.” Shay indicates the worn faces of the people around them with a sweeping gesture. “And yet, they stay. I can’t…”

He shakes his head, tries to collect his scattered thoughts.

“I couldn’t live with myself, if I left now.” It might not be his fault, this time, but he cannot walk away. Call it payment, call it penance for the weight of the souls on his chest, but he won’t abandon the few he might be able to help.

Haytham musters him, gaze locked on his face for a few precious seconds before he nods. It’s not like he could have held back Shay anyway, not if he was serious about staying. He might be above him in rank, but Shay is still the ship’s captain, and as such, they take great care not to show any disagreements in front of the crew.

Shay walks back to the assembled men, tries to gauge where the most help is needed and get an overview over the current state of the rescue efforts. He resolutely doesn’t look into the cold house where the dead have been laid out, concentrates solely on finding the living instead. They recover one more survivor who had been incredibly lucky; of the last one, however, the only find the corpse, mangled and broken by the masses of snow that had buried her.

At some point, the villagers offer them dinner which is accepted gratefully by the ship’s crew. Shay sits in the corner, staring mutely ahead, barely touching the stew in front of him.

“Sir.”

Shay blinks and looks up to see the face of Maria’s husband, the woman they had pulled out of the basement earlier. He is leaning heavily against the wall, trying to take the weight off his wounded leg, and nervously pulling at the strands of thread dangling from his shirt.

“I wanted to thank you, Sir,” the man ventures. “For you and your crew’s help. Don’t know whether we’d have been in time to save my wife and little ‘un otherwise.”

“I’m-“ Shay feels his voice breaking, scratchy and rough. He swallows and tries again.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do more,” he says. “I’m sorry for your son’s death.” Sorrow rises up in the man’s eyes and he looks away as he’s trying to catch his breath.

“Wasn’t your fault,” he finally brings out. “Without you, I’d have no family left at all. Don’t know how we’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Knowing that we’ve been able to save at least a few lives is payment enough,” Shay assures him. “I wish we could’ve done more.”

The man shakes his head.

“We’re lucky you were here. Thank you. Thank you again.” He holds out his hand in Shay’s direction and Shay grips it, shakes it with every ounce of sincerity that he can muster.

Shay has trouble falling asleep that night, the sounds of the day ringing trough his head together with the weight of the memories. Haytham, in an unusual show of softness, wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, until the frantic beating of his heart stills into something slower, more normal, and he finally drifts off into an uneasy sleep.


End file.
